


the last of its kind

by boom_goes_the_canon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Ducks, Fluff, Gen, Hijinks & Shenanigans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:13:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24017278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boom_goes_the_canon/pseuds/boom_goes_the_canon
Summary: A noble attempt to educate Marius Pontmercy in the art of observation leads to a startling discovery.
Comments: 20
Kudos: 34
Collections: 2020 Same-Prompt Fic Challenge





	the last of its kind

Enjolras was not a good choice for secret revolutionary business. Sure, he was undeniably charismatic. He could attract the attention of a crowd and sway them to his line of thinking in five minutes. He lived and breathed the Betterment of France in All Its Glory, and he had a certain earnest inflection in his voice that made you believe him when he spoke of it. What he was not, in any way, shape, or form, was subtle.

It couldn’t be helped. The man attracted attention. He turned heads in the street. He invited comparisons to gods and goddesses. He had no concept of the proper fashions of the time. He was memorable, whatever you said or thought about him. And normally, this was fine,

“I am off to meet a couple of friends,” Enjolras says, clasping Combeferre’s shoulder. The meeting is over, and the general conversation in the room has turned from revolutionary tidings to Prouvaire’s latest poem, Bahorel’s sartorial exploits, and whatever Grantaire is talking about at this hour.

Combeferre looks at him, worried. “On your own?”

“It is a delicate matter, and I would not like to interrupt your…” Here, he breaks off, and lets the wash of conversation speak for itself. Combeferre overhears a complicated joke involving three puns and what might be the beginnings of a new dialect. Enjolras giggles despite himself.

“I wish you luck,” Combeferre says, as Enjolras takes his leave. The room seems a lot less bright when Enjolras shuts the door behind him, and Combeferre rushes to light a candle. He then abruptly forgets the matter.

Courfeyrac had decided to take even more pains to acclimatize Marius Pontmercy to the group, even going so far as to bring a few accoutrements of his environment to the back room of the Musain. A piece of unfinished translation, a monogrammed handkerchief that had been wrinkled and smoothed out many times before, and a law book with a crust of bread sandwiched in between the pages lie on one of the tables, and Marius, fidgeting and denying that he is fidgeting, sits across.

Somehow, the education of Marius Pontmercy goes so far as to extend to his powers of observation. Combeferre tags along, proclaiming academic curiosity. He is not entirely sure why Grantaire comes with them, but he knows better than to ask.

“You know nothing of the outside world,” Courfeyrac laments in the vague direction of Marius’s ear. “You see and yet, you do not observe. Try harder, Marius.”

“The love of my life is not here in this park,” Marius observes, his face despondent.

“Neither is mine,” Grantaire volunteers. Marius gives him a dirty look. Grantaire gives him a dirty look back.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, we have only come here to strengthen my poor friend’s observational skills.” Courfeyrac nudges Marius with his cane. “Try again.”

“I see…ducks,” Marius says, pointing triumphantly at a trail of ducklings waddling across the park. “I see ducks being fed by a…” His eyes go wide. He clears his throat. He tries again. “By En…”

Grantaire has gone oddly silent beside him. Courfeyrac shakes Combeferre hurriedly, in paroxysms of delight. He shakes the glasses right off Combeferre’s nose. There is chaos. Combeferre shoves Courfeyrac off him and rescues his glasses before they’re crushed beneath someone’s heel.

The sight he sees is astonishing.

Enjolras. In all his glory.

Enjolras, in all his glory, feeding ducklings.

He sits on a bench, gently illuminated by the glow of his hair. He’s bundled up for the weather, with his coat buttoned to his chin and his cravat still in wild disarray. He has a large loaf of bread in his hands, and is ripping off bread crumbs for the quacking little things at his heels, with a look of pure concentration on his face.

“What is he doing?” Marius says, horrified.

“He is clearly feeding ducks. Marius, what have we said about observation?” Courfeyrac swats Marius on the back of the head. “Now be quiet before he notices us.”

Enjolras doesn’t seem to be in any danger of noticing them. He snatches some bread crumbs away from a particularly pleased, plump duckling, and puts away the loaf of bread to pick up the duckling. It quacks in his face.

“We must be just. You have had more bread crumbs than your companions. You cannot take any more until everyone else has had as much as you. You must not be selfish,” Enjolras says, with perfect seriousness, wagging a finger in the duckling’s face. “We must have equality in all things.”

“Oh god,” Grantaire whispers. His face has gone blotchy.

“Is he…parenting?” Combeferre says, rushing to clean his glasses. This is a rare phenomenon. He must not miss a second of it. Courfeyrac has dissolved into helpless laughter beside him. Marius looks like he’s having a religious experience.

Enjolras, satisfied, nods and puts down the duckling. His stoic face slowly melts into a goofy little smile as he goes back to scattering bread crumbs.

“We do not speak a word of this to Enjolras,” Courfeyrac whispers, taking charge. “We must keep this to ourselves.”

“I couldn’t say anything even if I wanted to,” Marius protests. “What would I even say? ‘Oh, um, Enjolras, I saw you feeding ducklings yesterday. I didn’t know you could do that. Good job!’”

“That is exactly the sort of thing we must not say to Enjolras, my dear Pontmercy. The man’s smiles are an endangered species. This one might very well be the last of its kind,” Grantaire says, adopting a scholarly tone. Combeferre shoves him in the ribs.

Enjolras looks up, sensing a disturbance in the vicinity. They all sprint, pushing and shoving, to the nearest tree. It’s a very slim tree. Courfeyrac’s hat is probably still visible, as is one of the lapels of Grantaire’s waistcoat.

“Go along. Off with you now,” Enjolras says. None of them can see what’s happening, so Grantaire imagines him herding the ducklings away. Perhaps they follow him, all in a line, shaking their little tails. Bread crumbs would drop from his coat, and they would fight over them.

“Do you think this was what he meant when he said he was meeting ‘a couple of friends’?” Combeferre says.

“Who knows how things work in Enjolras’ mind,” Grantaire says darkly. He peers out from the tree trunk. “I think it’s safe to come out now.”

When they finally get out of the shade of the tree, Enjolras is no longer at the bench. They search the surroundings, looking for any sign of him. The ducklings have all disappeared, but the ground is covered in feathers.

On the other side of the park, Enjolras walks away quickly, brushing off his coat. He has his hands in his pockets, and his eyes are fixed to the pavement. He hears a quack behind him.

“For the last time, you cannot have any more bread crumbs,” he hisses under his breath. The quacking stops and he hurries home.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [ this Tumblr post ](https://idiopathicsmile.tumblr.com/post/87064533678/so-theres-that-part-in-enjolrass-intro-where-it) on Enjolras and duckling aristocracy.


End file.
